Mr. Jorgensen had a monitor hooked up to his chest and a big electric box on the table beside him when I went to visit the next day.
“I’m pretty certain they’re testing to make sure I’m still alive,” he said.
I laughed.
“Don’t laugh—there have been doubts.”
I took my regular seat.
He looked really tired. “They’ve also got me on some drugs that make me sleepy, so don’t expect very vibrant conversation here.”
“Okay,” I said. “Did you hear about Juilliard?”
“Did I hear about Juilliard,” he said. “Of course I did. And of course you’re going. And of course they’re going to let you in.” He looked to the ceiling. “We’ll miss you here.”
“It’s just an audition.”
“An audition is one thing, Will, if you apply to a place like that. They bring in hundreds of people just to make sure the future of music doesn’t slip through their fingers. But they’ve asked you to come after hearing you. This isn’t an audition, Will. This is those two scouts who were here showing you off to their friends. A big ‘Look what we found in sleepy old Ottawa.’”
“You think so?”
“Pack your bags, Will. You might not be coming back.” He laughed. The laugh turned into a cough. “I couldn’t be prouder of you.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Everything that happens from here on in is entirely due to your love of the music. It’s a dying art, Will. But you will keep it alive.”
“No pressure,” I said.
“No, Will. No pressure at all. You keep playing for yourself and let the rest of the world decide what it is you’re doing.”
“I’ll try.” A bus stopped outside and I turned to look, as I always do. A bunch of people got off. The last three were kids with skateboards. They rolled down the street, grinding and sliding off anything they could and looking totally carefree.
“I think I’m going to get a skateboard,” I said jokingly as I turned back around. I didn’t get an answer, though, because Mr. Jorgensen was already asleep.